


Eye of the Beholder

by Makioka



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Female Protagonist, Femslash, Friendship, Rare Pairing, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-02
Updated: 2010-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-09 21:23:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makioka/pseuds/Makioka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the final battle Lavender Brown is no longer beautiful. But there is always a way forward. Rare-pair. DH-adherent. Femmeslash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eye of the Beholder

Lavender Brown doesn't move. She lies there staring at the blank white ceiling of the Hogwarts infirmary, lies there with her eyes blank and dry, swimming in a sea of pain. She can't move. If she moves then her scars rip open, and stain the cool, clean sheets with infected blood that dries in an instant, and has a peculiar smell to it. There are three long claw marks down her stomach, one of them tracing between her breasts, as though it has been drawn by a long finger tracing an ardent caress. Her legs are marked in the same fashion, across her thighs marring the smooth white flesh. They don't let her see her face, but she suspects the worst from the blinding fire that comes if she coughs, or moves her features. They force a potion down her throat every hour, designed to alleviate the pain, but she can't find the words to tell them that it doesn't work. That the pain hides beneath the surface, like a sinuous snake that can infiltrate itself into every tangled thread of her thoughts, and causes her to hallucinate until she can't tell the difference between reality and her dreams.

Harry comes and hovers awkwardly. Whispers about how brave she was. She used to have a crush on him, the hero bent on saving the world, but now he looks tired and old, and the spark that made him real seems to have cooled, until he is only a pale shadow of what he once was. He runs his fingers through his hair, but it's no longer the care-free gesture of the boy she had once known.

Ron stops by for a moment, and murmurs something about being sorry, about how he should have been there. She can't find the words to absolve him of the sin-that-was-not-a-sin. She can't find words at all for the boy she had once kissed, hugged, told her secrets to, and started falling in love with until she realised what a stupid thing that would be to do.

Hermione sits beside her sometimes, and this is the worst trial of all. Because Hermione cries. She thinks Lavender is asleep, and even so she is discreet, she hides her sobs, and the only sound that reveals what she is doing is the ragged breaths, and occasional sniff. Lavender knows from ward gossip that Hermione hasn't cried yet. That after the first emotion filled moments of relief, she has been hard and set and cold. She hasn't broken down in anyone's arms, not even Harry and Ron's, but presents a white face to the world. But from where Lavender has risked turning her head a very little to the side, she can see the shaking of her shoulders, the white streaks in brown bushy hair, the worn robes. She still does not speak.

Three weeks pass, and the worst is over. The wounds eventually rid themselves of all the vile pus that werewolf scratches secrete, and began to heal normally. The pain is still there, but it is in the background, and Lavender can breathe without the world burning white fire. People come to visit her- Parvati, Dean, Seamus, the Trio (usually together, Hermione still like a ghost, Harry like a dead man and Ron with guilt in his eyes,) but as time went by and she doesn't speak, even those visits began to tail off. One day she manages to shower, to dress herself, and raises her wand to do the charms she has done every day for the past five years, that she knows as well as Harry knows Experillaimus, or Ginny knows the Bat Bogey Hex, the simple hair and makeup spells that make up such a large part of who she was.

With a whispered charm a mirror appears in her hand, and she raises it with hands that shake uncontrollably. She is a Gryffindor, she faced down a Death-eater. She can deal with looking at some scars. In a vain attempt to make herself look better, she casts the charms before she looks. There is a tinkle of broken glass as she drops the mirror, and her legs fold from underneath her.

Seven years bad luck, part of her mind numbly tells her.

She is horrific. One eye is milky white (the side effect of the anti-venom they forced into her, when they realised that though she would not become a werewolf, she had more than werewolf poison coursing through her blood, that Fenrir Greyback left nothing to chance.) She can see through it, but there is no longer a pupil, no longer an iris, just a white orb that reminds her strangely of Mad-eye Moody. The scars take the form (like those on her stomach) of a hand clawing down her face. One of the thin raised scars traces across her mouth, and she follows it numbly with her fingers. She is missing two fingers on her left hand. She tosses back her head, and howls the thin reedy cry of an animal in pain.

 

There is nobody that she can talk to about this. Hermione came quietly to her, mentioned a house of healing and recovery that she was helping to plan, asked if she wanted a place. Lavender is tempted. She can't go back to her family like this, Hogwarts is not a home, and who does she know who will not pity her? But then blood rushes to her face, and she licks teeth that are slightly too sharp and wonders whether there would be no pity. She refuses.

And then they are all gone. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Seamus, Dean, Ginny, George. Even Parvati kissed her on the cheek (with only the briefest hesitation- though enough to crucify Lavender) and left for her family. Lavender stays alone, alone with the portraits and the few teachers who had volunteered to stay. Every few days, a stilted, polite little letter comes from Hermione. It always tells her there is a place for her. Eventually she stops opening them. She doesn't need anyone's pity.

Lavender is ugly now, is what she tells herself, and she tries to accept it. She no longer has white soft skin, that folds into dimples when she smiles. Her hair is not the soft mass of curls that it had been when she brushed it every day and always made sure to condition it, her eyes are not the same summer-blue they had once been- one of them white, the other faded and dull against the harsh vision of her face. Her body is scarred, and she tells herself quietly, so is her soul. Every shred of innocence she'd had in her, had been ripped out with those gleaming ivory teeth, and the crazed panting over her body that had reminded her only of a rabid dog.

 

Bill Weasley comes to talk to her. She remembers him from the Triwizard Tournament, the tall, dashing, good-looking wizard who had winked at her playfully. She'd pined for months, hugging her pillow in the ecstasy of a first crush. Now he is like her. The scarring is worse, more a mass of scar tissue than the lines she had running over her flesh, but he carries it off with a grim self confidence and posture. He sits beside her, and holds her hand. He doesn't tell her it will be okay, because they both knew it won't. Other scars would fade over time, would vanish with the right potion, but werewolf poison was ongoing. She still hasn't cried, but she tells him numbly about how ugly she is. She doesn't need to say it, they can both see it, but she needs to talk. He listens quietly, and squeezed her fingers harder though it doesn't hurt like it would've in the past, and she wishes with a small bitter smile that he isn't married.

Fleur visits next. Lavender remembers her from the Tri-wizard Tournament and is intrigued. She is breath-takingly gorgeous still, tall, silvery haired, and willowy, everything that Lavender had tried to be before this, and she is married to a man the utter opposite. She sits down with Lavender, and like her husband had done, takes her hand. Lavender has the sudden most absurd idea that Fleur is about to impart beauty tips, how to make the most of what she had left. How to powder and primp, to draw notice to your _best_ features darling. Think of the scars as a beauty-spot, there to attract attention to your lovely, lovely eyes. So when warm lips cover her own, and her face feels the gentle touch of soft hands her mind goes blank. Fleur, wife of Bill Weasley is kissing her, slowly and tenderly, and not seeming to care that Lavender is not kissing back.

Lavender stills. I'm not gay, she tells herself. I like boys, always have done. But a tiny part of her mind whispers quietly. What boy will touch you now? Who will touch with gentleness and warmth and tenderness, and make you feel as though you are something other than your face? Take this. Take it even if it is pity, even if it is some sick kink that Beauxbatons students indulge in, the thrill of intimacy with someone so hideously scarred. Take it because you might never feel this again.

As though Fleur can read her mind, she stops the kiss, and cups Lavender's face with her hands. Her eyes are intensely hot and burning. "This eez not pity," she whispers, and kisses one cheek. "This eez not a lie or a joke." She kisses the other. "I want to make you feel beautiful again." A kiss is brushed onto her lips. "I 'ave talked about this with Bill, and we agreed that I should be the one to show you that life is not over, that you can be touched and be wanted."

Drawing in a shuddering breath, Lavender relaxes. Just tonight she tells herself. Tonight she would accept this gift. Fleur feels the acquiescence, and their kiss is renewed. Slowly Fleur traces her fingers across every scar, across Lavender's thigh under the long white nightgown, and the welts on her stomach. Like a ghost, her touch wavers between them, and Lavender feels every nerve in her body tense. With a final acceptance she gathers Fleur closer towards her in an embrace, and reaches out to touch.

Afterwards she cries, and Fleur's long fingers stroke her hair back from her face, and she is held with agonizing acceptance. Before dawn comes, Fleur is gone. Lavender breathes in and out, and experimentally prods her memory of last night. No pain, and she smiles for the first time in a long time. When the next owl comes from Hermione, Lavender scrawls on the back of it, and sends it back. "Yes please."

**Author's Note:**

> I've posted this story in another place, but this is a tinkered version. I hope that is okay?


End file.
